by Allie Therin
“That was a troubled sound,” said one of the monks, as he appeared in the doorway with another wooden chair.
Rory gave him a narrow-eyed look, leaving his head where it was.
The monk only gave him a small smile in return as he set the chair across from Rory. “To raise your ankle.”
Rory’s eyes stayed narrowed. But he wanted to walk without trouble again, so he swallowed the pain with a small grunt as he raised his foot and propped it on the other chair.
Arthur pulled the phone away from his mouth. “Brother,” he said to the monk, “a moment?”
Rory shut his eyes as Arthur and the monk conferred in low voices, catching “too much snow” and “shouldn’t risk a driver” and something about the morning.
Then Arthur was suddenly looming over him. “Dozing?”
“Nah.” Rory swallowed. “Too keyed up to sleep.”
“Understandable.” Arthur folded his arms. He was still wearing the fancy suit he’d worn to his other brother’s lunch, spotted wet from the snow but still unreasonably nice in the soft light of the monastery office. “The snow’s coming down harder.”
Rory winced.
“Harry and I talked about looking for a driver, but the roads are a mess. He’s going to arrange for transportation in the morning.”
“Then what’re we gonna do tonight?”
“The monks have spare rooms here in the guesthouse. If we want them,” he added, and Rory knew it was a question.
Rory ran a hand over his face, his heart beating uncomfortably fast as a tight band of fear squeezed his chest. “Church or snow,” he said, voice shaky. “I might pick snow.”
“We’re sharing.” When Rory blinked, Arthur spread his hands innocently. “I couldn’t possibly ask the brothers to make up two rooms. We’re putting them out enough as it is. Besides, you could have hit your head when you came down on that bank and I need to watch you for a concussion. As I told them, I was a soldier and I’m perfectly accustomed to tight quarters.” He lowered his voice. “Not out of my sight. Remember?”
The panic in Rory’s chest loosened, just enough. “Yeah,” he said, almost smiling. “I remember now.”
Chapter Nine
Their room in the guesthouse looked like a monk’s cell, with most of the space filled by the single bed against the wall. Almost everything in the room was wood: the tiny desk and chair beneath a small, square window that showcased dancing snowflakes; the shelf above the bed that held a large cross and several lit candles. No lamp, but a mattress and a roof, which was a lot more than they’d get outside.
Exhaustion and tension warred inside Rory as Arthur helped him limp over the threshold. “We are grateful,” Arthur said quietly to the two monks who’d escorted them.
The younger monk only nodded, maybe practicing silence, but the older of the monks smiled kindly. “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
“Hebrews, chapter thirteen,” Rory muttered. Arthur glanced at him in surprise and Rory sighed. “That chapter also says honor marriage and that God’ll judge adulterers.” He’d heard all those verses too many times to forget.
He sat on the edge of the bed as Arthur accepted a stack of folded blankets and a white box with a red cross.
“If your friend needs a doctor, we can find one,” the older monk offered.
“Thank you, but I’ll tend to him,” Arthur promised, before Rory could panic. “I can wrap a sprain. I’ll make sure he sees a real doctor in the morning.”
Yeah, sure he would. Rory trusted doctors about as much as he trusted the church.
The monks dipped their heads and left, closing the heavy wooden door behind them and leaving Arthur and Rory alone. Rory’s back felt too straight, his shoulders too stiff, his whole body brittle as a dried twig. Arthur should’ve been in his nice big room in Harry’s mansion, sleeping on silk sheets. And Rory sure as heck didn’t want to be here, in a monastery of all places.
Arthur set the blankets on the end of the bed. “I thought you’d be most comfortable with me playing nurse,” he said quietly, as he reached for Rory and eased both coats off. The guesthouse was near-silent outside their door, but his voice was soft enough it didn’t echo off their room’s wooden floors and brick walls and wouldn’t be overheard. “But if you’d rather a doctor—”
Rory rapidly shook his head. “I want you,” he said, just as quietly.
Arthur’s gaze skimmed over Rory, now down to nothing but his thin shirt, the one Arthur’d once popped buttons off. Rory’d found the buttons on the floor but hadn’t had time to stitch them back on. Now, with his tie loose, the collar was falling open to show olive skin under the white fabric.
Arthur’s gaze seemed stuck on the visible skin, then he shook himself. “Likewise,” he said lightly, the word loaded. He put the clothes on the desk, then sat next to Rory on the bed. “First a house overflowing with children, now a monastery,” he said, as he reached down for Rory’s foot. “I certainly know how to show a fellow a good time.”
That startled Rory into a huffed half laugh, his shoulders relaxing just a touch.
“No, none of that, stop smiling. I’m trying to stay cross with you and it’s making me soft.”
Arthur didn’t sound cross at all as he tipped Rory back onto his elbows. He brought Rory’s foot up to rest in his lap, the candlelight illuminating Arthur’s big, broad body and fond smile. The sight of him took the edge off Rory’s nerves. Hard to imagine anything bad getting past Arthur.
Arthur unwrapped the scarf and tossed it to the desk as he pulled a tan bandage out of the first aid kit. “Christ, you’re lucky all you got was a sprain.”
“Hey,” Rory said. “Watch your mouth.”
Arthur glanced up from his foot, one eyebrow up. “You can’t actually care if I swear in a—”
Rory narrowed his eyes.
“Oh.” Arthur blinked. “You do.”
Rory’s jaw tightened. “I said church was complicated. Not the same as saying I don’t believe.”
It sounded ridiculous as he said it and he tensed, ready to be teased.
But Arthur only shrugged. “Fair enough.” His touch was gentle as he swapped the scarf for a real bandage around Rory’s ankle. “Far be it from me to disparage a man’s faith.”
Rory furrowed his brow. “What, you don’t go to church?” he said, feeling stupid to have to ask. He ought to know something like this about Arthur.
Arthur smiled thinly as he secured the bandage. “Of course I do. Attendance is required for all members of any upstanding politician’s family. Whether anyone in our family actually believes, well. I wouldn’t place bets on it.”
For a moment, Rory wasn’t seeing the tiny monastery guest room but Harry Kenzie’s mansion, the endless rooms and grounds, the heirlooms and the priceless art. The world of a politician’s family, where keeping up appearances mattered. Rory swallowed.
Arthur looked up. “Are you all right? You’ve gone a bit paler and—oh.” Self-recrimination suddenly crossed his face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about your faith.”
Rory blinked, confused. “You don’t gotta be sorry. Believing doesn’t make someone a good person, it’s actions that count.”
But Arthur just shook his head. “I didn’t think about what you and I staying here together was asking of you,” he said, which didn’t explain anything. “But you need the rest, so come on, let’s get you into this bed.”
* * *
Together they managed to strip off most of Rory’s still-damp clothes, which Arthur laid around the room to dry best they could in the cold air. Rory put his glasses up on the little wooden shelf with the candles and cross as Arthur arranged the second pillow under his ankle and the extra blankets on top, even spreading the raccoon coat over Rory.
The wind howled outside
as Arthur blew out the candles but one, sending the room into near-darkness. Rory settled himself on the edge of the bed, nose nearly against the wall. He was so anxious his chest hurt, but he took a deep breath. There’s nothing in this room you’re gonna scry and get stuck in, he told himself. And you got Ace.
The thought was enough to settle the worst of his nerves again, and he closed his eyes.
A moment later, there was a scrape of wood against wood.
His eyes popped open. “What’re you doing?” He rolled partway onto his back, enough to glance over his shoulder. There was only fuzzy darkness beyond the candle, maybe a silhouette against the soft white glow at the window. “Did you just sit in the desk chair?”
“I can doze upright,” came Arthur’s voice from the desk. “You’re injured, you need the bed.”
“But I thought we were gonna share.”
“No, I apologize, that was thoughtless of me.”
Rory frowned. “Why would I make you sleep in a chair?”
“You’re Catholic.”
Rory scrunched his nose.
“You’re not not Catholic,” Arthur corrected, which was fair. “And I’m your first—well.” There was a soft exhale. “I’ve had years to come to terms with liking men, despite what religion says it means for my soul. But this is all new to you, and I shouldn’t have made assumptions about your religion or your feelings. I certainly shouldn’t have thought we’d share a bed in a monastery, even just to sleep.”
Oh.
Rory looked up at the ceiling. The monastery was still, nothing to hear but the soft howl of the wind outside the window. His emotions were a stormy mess, but one phrase kept coming up from his memories, stronger than everything else. “Tu non sei il frutto del peccato, ma il mio tesoro.”
Arthur seemed to still. He stayed quiet, probably waiting for Rory to translate.
Rory bit his lip and tried to explain. “We went to church when I was little, my mom and I,” he started awkwardly, keeping his voice low. “Mostly with Irish folks and some French Canadians, ’cause there weren’t enough Italians in town for our own. The priest was one of those real people of faith, like Mrs. B., nothing but love in his heart for everyone. Then he died, and our church got a new priest.”
Rory licked his lips nervously. “It was pretty obvious that my dad wasn’t Italian and hadn’t married my mom. And the first day we met the new priest, he quoted the Book of Wisdom at me and said a bastard had no hope on Judgment Day.”
Arthur drew a breath but didn’t interrupt.
Rory swallowed. Being unwanted still hurt, fifteen years later. “I cried,” he admitted quietly, “and asked my mom if I was going to hell. And she hugged me and said, ‘Tu non sei il frutto del peccato, ma il mio tesoro.’” He blew out a shaky breath. “‘You’re not the fruit of sin, you’re my treasure.’”
“Oh,” Arthur said, voice thick.
Tesoro. Luce dei miei occhi. Cucchiolo. Angelo. Her Italian had been so full of love. “I must’ve made her life so hard. She shouldn’t’ve had to raise me by herself. But she said I was as innocent as any other kid and God knew that.” Rory’s eyes stung hot in the cold room, and he wiped at them with the back of his hand. “So yeah, Ace, I’ve thought about my soul plenty.”
“Teddy—”
“And maybe I hadn’t ever slept with a man, but I knew what I liked before I met you. If my birth didn’t make me a sin, I think my heart shouldn’t either, and you, Ace, someone good like you could never be any kind of sin. Now shut up and get in the bed.”
Arthur made a half laugh, a bit choked up. And then he was sliding under the blanket behind Rory, who had to bite back a groan at the soft warmth against his skin. “What the heck were you wearing under your clothes?” he whispered.
“Silk. It’s the most appropriate for the weather.” Arthur’s matching whisper sounded like it came through clenched teeth as one of his legs brushed Rory’s. “But I should have left my suit on. This bed means no chance of space.”
“You can put your—”
“Hush. Don’t you dare. You’re going to lie there and not make any offers so I don’t do anything untoward in your precious House of the Lord.”
The corner of Rory’s lips curled up. “I was gonna say that you can put your arm around me if you keep it innocent.”
Arthur snorted. “You have a high opinion of my self-control.” But his arms were already moving, one threading under Rory’s pillow, the other draping over Rory’s waist, welcomingly heavy. “Three days I’ve had to keep my hands to myself and when I finally get you in my arms, we’re cloistered with monks.”
Arthur’s closeness was seeping through him like a warm drink, melting the tense exhaustion and leaving him pleasantly sleepy in its wake. Rory’s eyes were closing on their own. “I’ll take it.”
“I said not to be sweet.” Arthur’s hand found Rory’s, their fingers intertwining. Then he brushed Rory’s fourth finger and stilled. “Why are you wearing the ring?”
“Um...” Rory made a face. “I can’t get it off.”
“You can’t remove a terrifying piece of tempest-starting fifteenth-century Spanish magic and you’re only telling me now?”
Rory hid his face against the pillow. “I’m not real proud of a lotta my decisions today.”
Behind Rory, Arthur thudded his head against the pillow. “Christ, you’re trouble.”
“Arthur James.”
“What? No, uppity twenty-year-old who broke the Hudson River, no sir. You do not get to say my full name in that tone of voice.”
“Stop swearing, then.”
“You have a relic stuck on your finger—”
“In a church, so you don’t get to swear about it.”
Arthur made a loud huff. “Are the wind and snow still your doing?”
“... I hope not?”
“You hope not.”
Rory winced. “Is this the part where you’re gonna get apocalyptically cross?”
Arthur sighed and pulled Rory a little closer. “I’d have to unwrap myself from around your pinky finger first.”
Rory bit back a smile. “I’m not sure that’s church talk either,” he said primly.
“Keep it up, darling,” Arthur said, dangerously sweet. “And just hope I don’t remember your teasing the next time we’re alone and monk-free.”
An electric shiver went through Rory, the best kind of anticipation, and geez, he had to cut this off before he was the one who got untoward in a church. “So Harry’s getting us a morning ride?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.
“He said he’d handle it. He’s very steady, you know, very kind.”
“Yeah, he’s swell,” Rory said sincerely.
Arthur sighed, so softly Rory wouldn’t have caught it if Arthur hadn’t been pressed against his back.
He frowned. “Hey,” he said gently. “I just told you about my mom. If you want to talk about your brother, I can listen.”
“It’s more that I want to talk about you,” Arthur admitted, as his arm stayed around Rory like an anchor. “You know you don’t have to be afraid of my family?”
Rory froze. “I’m not—”
“You’ve been avoiding Harry as much as you can. I didn’t know if maybe it was the—ah—money thing,” he said, sounding very awkward, “because I’ll admit, he and Celeste are not subtle.”
Rory hunched a bit. “It’s complicated,” he said guiltily. He’d never meant to upset Arthur.
But Arthur just squeezed him reassuringly tighter. “You don’t have to like him—”
“I like him,” Rory interrupted. “A lot. I wish I’d had a dad like him.”
Arthur groaned. “Thank you, Theodore, thank you for that. I did not actually need a reminder that you’re young enough my brother could be your father.”
Rory rolled his eyes.
“I’m not young, Ace. And I’ve been on my own for years. You’re being overprotective again.”
“Maybe. But I couldn’t protect you from sleeping in the basement.”
Arthur’s voice had grown quieter. Rory furrowed his brow. “Basement’s fine. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing. Everything.” Arthur’s face brushed the back of Rory’s neck in the quickest caress. He already had stubble going, electric against Rory’s skin. “I know it would have been too risky for me to insist you sleep in better quarters. But I never meant for you to think you can’t even speak to my family.”
Arthur sounded genuinely bothered. Rory swallowed. “You didn’t.”
“Didn’t I? The first night you and I spoke on the phone, you told me you never wanted to hear my fu—my name again. I have just as much money as Harry and I didn’t scare you at all then. Why would you be nervous now?”
Rory bit his lip, staring into the dark, the wall only inches from his face. “Because that night on the phone with you, I was mad, and I didn’t have anything to lose,” he said, uncomfortably honest. “It didn’t matter that when I open my big mouth, most people don’t like me.”
“That’s not—”
“How’d it go, the first time we met?”
Arthur fell silent.
“I yelled at you and I ran my mouth, then I told a buncha lies, and you didn’t like me,” Rory said quietly. “Harry’s your brother. You care about your family, and that matters to me because I care about—look,” he said hastily instead. “I just don’t want to mess it all up with him too, all right?”
But behind him, Arthur shook his head. “I didn’t dislike you.”
“Yeah, you did—”
“I thought you were cute.”
Rory blinked and tried to glance over his shoulder at Arthur. “Cute?”
“Very. And I thought you were a little shit, but I wasn’t wrong about that either.”
“Language.” But a grudging smile tugged at Rory’s lips.
Arthur touched his cheek to Rory’s hair. “I’m simply saying that if you think you could ever upset me or put me off by being yourself, regardless of the company, then you don’t know me at all.”
